When Zara opened her eyes again, the world was soft. Literally. She was sinking in what had to be the comfiest couch she'd ever sat on—plush, clean, smelling faintly of roses and lemon polish. For a moment, she thought she'd finally woken up back home, maybe on her roommate's sofa after another late-night Netflix binge. But then the chandelier above her glimmered, and the room's "modest but rich" aesthetic reminded her where she really was—inside a freaking novel.
She leaned back, one arm flung over her face.
"Okay, girl. Let's think. You got kidnapped, drenched, nearly blinded, and somehow woke up in a book. Normal Tuesday."
Her brain, however, refused to accept the "book" part quietly. It played a mental slideshow of the last few hours—her dramatic entrance (water included), the angelic sister with tear-stained cheeks, and the Greek statue turned mafia CEO who apparently thought women were debt receipts.
"God, I'm living inside fanfiction," she muttered. "The bad kind. With questionable consent and a man who probably smells like sin and money."
She groaned and sat up, brushing invisible dirt off her dress. The house—her supposed "home" now—was tidy in that old-fashioned way. The curtains were white lace, the walls pale ivory, the furniture mahogany. A fireplace sat at the far end, cold but regal. Everything screamed quiet dignity, except for her—Zara, sitting cross-legged on the couch like she was waiting for her Uber Eats order.
Then her mind replayed that moment. The instant before darkness hit again.
"Those bastards really love knocking me out," she mumbled, rubbing her neck. "If this keeps up, I'll lose brain cells before the plot even begins."
She looked around the room again.
"Alright. Maybe this is the sisters' house? Looks cozy enough. Too cozy for people who apparently owe a billionaire."
Zara leaned back again, thinking about the elder sister—the beauty. The girl was so heartbreakingly gorgeous it was unfair. Like, unfair in a "you should be arrested for existing" kind of way. And yet, instead of running off to become the next world supermodel, she was busy throwing herself in front of some dangerous man to save her sister.
"She's either the dumbest genius or the smartest fool," Zara said under her breath. "Imagine having a face like that and using it for charity."
But deep down, she knew. She'd read this story. She knew exactly how things went. The beauty—what was her name again? S
Liana. Yes, Liana—was going to end up taming the devil himself. The cold, older male lead. What was his name again? Ah, right. Dravien Tharlic. Even his name sounded like expensive whiskey and unresolved trauma.
Zara rolled her eyes so hard it could've counted as exercise. "Of course the tyrant falls for the pure-hearted beauty. It's in every bad Wattpad ever written."
Then she paused, remembering how the story actually went. Eliana would fall for Dravien too—hard and painfully slow—and together they'd create this dark, obsessive love story full of angst, blood, and bathtub confessions. Then the younger sister—aka Zara's new body—would turn psycho, ruin everything, and probably get karma'd by chapter thirty.
She blinked.
Wait. That psycho sister… was her.
Her whole body froze.
"Oh no. Oh hell no. Not me."
She stood up, pacing like a woman deciding between two bad Wi-Fi options. "So let me get this straight. I'm in the body of the crazy little sister who tried to steal her sister's man?!"
Her voice cracked halfway through.
God really had a sense of humor.
But fine. If this was the setup, she wasn't about to play along. Zara had survived bad breakups, failing exams, and her crappy country's electricity blackouts—she could survive one cursed romance plot.
"Alright," she said aloud, striking a mock-heroic pose in front of the window. "If the original girl was dumb enough to chase her sister's man, I'll just... not. I'll be the most peaceful background character ever. No drama, no obsession, just—"
She stopped mid-sentence, staring at her reflection in the window. Pale skin. Blond hair. Blue eyes.
"—just a whole racial identity crisis, apparently."
Her lips twitched. "Lord, if this is my punishment for skipping Sunday service, I promise I'll never miss again."
She dropped back onto the couch, exhausted from all the thinking. "I just have to wait this thing out. Maybe if I play along nicely, the universe will send me back. Like, poof, wake up in class again, staring at my hot professor. God, I miss that man. He had cheekbones that could cut glass."
She sighed dramatically, hand over her heart. "Professor Ethan, if you can hear me from the real world, know that I'm suffering in 4K HD without you."
Her monologue was cut short by the sound of footsteps. Instantly, Zara sat up straight, pretending to be proper. If she remembered correctly, this was the part in the novel where the household maids came in to check on the "captured sisters."
"Time to act innocent," she whispered, smoothing her hair. "No crazy eyes, no sarcasm, no swearing. Just vibes."
The door opened. A tall woman stepped in—stern, elegant, and wearing the kind of expression that could silence a screaming toddler.
"You're awake," the woman said flatly.
"Yes, ma'am," Zara replied, voice trembling just enough to sell the part. "I—uh—thank you for… not drowning me again?"
The woman blinked slowly, clearly confused.
Zara winced. "Right. Wrong line."
She clasped her hands together, smiling like an angel who just committed arson. "I mean, thank you for the hospitality. Love what you've done with the kidnapping theme."
The maid's eyes narrowed. "You should be grateful the Master chose to spare you."
Zara tilted her head. "Master? Oh, you mean the devil in designer shoes?"
That earned her a sharp glare.
"Noted," Zara whispered to herself. "No sarcasm when they mention Dravien."
When the woman finally left, Zara exhaled in relief. "Okay. Survive today. Don't die. Don't drool over the villain. Don't fight the sister. Easy peasy."
But as she lay back on the couch, her mind still spun.
This wasn't just another dream.
This was real.
And she, Zara—University girl, hopeless romantic, certified chaos magnet—was now the villain-in-progress.
Still, a slow grin spread across her face. "Well… if I'm trapped in a novel, I might as well make it interesting."
She picked up an apple from the table
, bit into it dramatically, and muttered,
"Let's rewrite destiny—Zara style."
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